


Decision: Year of the Anchovy

by the_glow_worm



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Elections, Gen, Politics, Vimes being angry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_glow_worm/pseuds/the_glow_worm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a mysterious campaign circulates to elect Vimes to the Patricianship, an old city law forces his hand. It soon promises to be the election of the century...originally written years ago for Election '08.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decision: Year of the Anchovy

No one was entirely sure who had first put up the posters.

 

It couldn’t have been the Watch, because more than three words were spelled correctly. It was probably not a nob’s ideas of fun, since the posters were painstakingly made on faded newspaper scraps. They had a certain disregard for commas that suggested Carrot, except for the lingering odor that suggested Nobby, who couldn’t spell anything right.

 

But whoever the originator, they spread like wildfire.

 

Samuel Vimes was looking at one of the newest ones right now, in fact. Although the first few words were cut out of newspaper letters, the rest were written in charcoal. Vimes was already gritting his teeth, but he almost grinned. Ankh-Morporkians had a lazy streak as sluggish as the river.

 

It read:

 

 

> **aTTenshun AllE cItyzenS**
> 
>  
> 
> **riSe up agants, the opppresers, of Ank Morepork** (Here the words “Vetinari” and “the Patrishun” had been crossed out, proving once more that Ankh-Morpork’s greatest natural resource was self-preservation.)
> 
>  
> 
> **Vimes for Patrishun!**
> 
> **—Tuff on crime**
> 
> **—Tuff on trolls**
> 
> **—Tuff on dwarves**
> 
> **—Tuff on humans...**

 

And so it went.

 

I had really hoped to avoid this, Vimes thought resignedly, trying to stare the poster out of existence. So far it wasn’t working, but he wondered if it wasn’t somewhat smaller. Ah, well.

 

“It’s a poster, sir,” said Vimes to the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, who, by the expression on his face, was either pondering the weather or the best way to dismember a man.

 

“This must be the famed deductive skills at work, Vimes,” said Vetinari. “What else do you observe about this supposed poster?”

 

“It appears to be some sort of political endorsement.” He snapped a salute. “I’m afraid politics is not my field of expertise, sir.”

 

“Indeed not. But I am sure you will learn quickly. Very well, that is all.”

 

A relieved Vimes turned for the door, realized something was amiss, stopped, and turned slowly back around.

 

“Did you say something, sir?”

 

Vetinari continued to rearrange the papers on his desk. “Hmm? I believe I dismissed you, Vimes.”

 

“Er, no, before that.”

 

“Commander, I merely expressed my confidence that you will catch on speedily to the political game here in Ankh-Morpork. And if not, it may well catch on to you.”

                                                                                                                          

“I don’t understand, sir,” said Vimes slowly, although a nasty feeling was starting in his stomach.

 

Vetinari looked up at that, meeting Vimes’ eyes. “Oh, do you not? I am surprised at you. I would have thought you to be well versed in city law.”

 

Vimes’ knowledge of city law, while he had picked up details from reading Carrot’s _Ankh-Morpork City Laws and Ordinances_ , was basically thus: A crime is committed, and a copper runs after the criminal. Oh, there might be some variations in the particularities, but all crimes, when it came down to it, were basically extensions of the unlicensed thief stealing an old lady’s purse. His brow furrowed.

 

“Is there a crime involved, sir?”

 

“In a manner of speaking.” Vetinari gave him a brief, brief smile. “Welcome to the world of politics.”

 

* * *

  

“It’s a very old law, I’m afraid. It dates back to the third Patrician of Ankh-Morpork,” said Vetinari. He had told Vimes, not unkindly, to sit down. “Simply put, it states that if a man eligible for the Patricianship should be nominated by the will of the people, that man has an obligation to challenge the current Patrician for his office.” He paused. “That would be me,” he said.

 

“And I’ve been...nominated?”

 

Vetinari picked up the poster. “ ‘Vimes for Patrishun’, ” he read. “Oh dear. I seem to have been spelling my title wrong all these years. What else...oh yes. There follows a list of your qualifications. I particularly enjoy the assertion that you are, and I quote, ‘a right old bastard’. And the fact that you killed a werewolf counts a great deal, it seems. There are an alarming number of exclamation points after.”

 

“But that’s not the people!” Vimes exclaimed. “That’s just some idiot with a pencil!”

 

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “And a paper, Vimes. Let us not forget the paper.”

 

“You can be an idiot with both.”

 

“I receive proof of that daily, I assure you. Idiot or not, however, you have just received the endorsement of the people. ‘The people’ has so many meanings, you see. Quite a dangerous phrase.”

 

Vimes could feel his mouth working soundlessly. “And....then what?” he managed.

 

A smile, thin as a knife, appeared on Vetinari’s face. “And then, Commander, you run for election.”

 

* * *

  

If politics was a game, it was the sort that you played with a human head. These days, Vimes was the head.

 

The guilds actually decided who was to be Patrician. Every guild had a number of votes equal to one-seventeenth of their membership—and it did not escape Vimes that the number of people in the guilds increased dramatically overnight.

 

“The Watchmen’s Guild will be fully behind you, of course,” Vetinari had said.

 

Anyways, so that made yelling at Nobby the _first_ order of business when he got back to Pseudopolis Yard. The second order of business was to figure out how to not win the Patricianship.

 

Vimes didn’t like it when people liked him. It made him nervous. He particularly didn’t like that a surprising amount of people wanted him to be the Patrician. Vimes didn’t like Vetinari either, but that didn’t mean he wanted him to stop being Patrician...The fact was, and Vimes didn’t like admitting this, but Ankh-Morpork needed Vetinari.

 

Also, Vimes didn’t want to rule the city. One of his ancestors had already gone down that road.

 

The _Times_ released numbers every day now. It was something ridiculous to do with asking people about their opinion and then making it into a chart. So far 36 out of 100 people wanted Vetinari to be Patrician, 29 wanted Vimes, and 35 told the _Times_ to bugger off. According to the little squiggly red line, Vimes was gaining.

 

So Vimes did what any sensible copper would do. He set about making himself unpopular.

 

“Throw the book at them,” he had told Carrot. “Throw the book _and_ the pen it was written with _and_ the clerk who wrote it down at them.”

 

“Who’s them, sir?” Carrot had asked.

 

“Everyone.”

 

Apparently that included half the nobs in the city and the Ambassador to Klatch. Apparently this made him “tough on foreign policy” and a “man of the people,” at least according to the _Times_.

 

While Vimes was fuming in his office, Angua came in.

 

“Awfully quiet downstairs,” she remarked. “Might have something to do with all the yelling that was going on.”

 

“I’d like your help with something,” said Vimes.

 

“I assumed that was why you called me up here, sir.”

 

“Ha.” Vimes threw his cigar across the room (Angua ducked it rather neatly) and lit another. “I need to know how to make people dislike me.”

 

“Don’t they already, sir?” Angua asked innocently. “You could kick a dog, I suppose.”

 

“In this city? I’d be doing a public service, even if I survived with all my toes intact.”

 

“You could promise to raise taxes, but people don’t pay taxes anyways. Er...I honestly can’t think of anything you could do that you haven’t already done. You really shouldn’t be this popular.”

 

“I know, it doesn’t make sense. Coppers shouldn’t be liked. They have a job to do.”

 

“You _have_ reduced crime, sir. By significant amounts.”

 

“That should be making me _more_ unpopular,” Vimes grumbled. “I’ll be glad when all this is over.”

 

“Assuming you’re not Patrician.”

 

The problem, Vimes thought to himself after Angua left, was that if he was surprisingly liked, Vetinari was unsurprisingly disliked. No one wanted to dislodge him from office, but no one wanted him to win, either. Vimes just had to make sure no one wanted him to win even more. Meanwhile, Vetinari was doing nothing. At all. Vimes wasn’t sure if he’d recognize a political ploy if it pulled his trousers out from under him, but he was pretty sure this was it.

 

* * *

  

“Bit of mixed news for you today, sir,” said Wilikins as Vimes shaved.

 

“Concerning the...election?” he said grimly.

 

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

 

“Out with it, then, man! I’ll even put the razor down.”

 

Wilikins coughed. “That may be wise.” He rustled the paper expertly and read: “Opposing Endorsements Shake Ankh-Morpork: Thieves Guild clusters behind Vetinari, Beggars swear to stand by Vimes, Assassins gutted with indecision. Sir.”

 

“ ‘Gutted with indecision’? Good grief.”

 

“I believe it may have been a joke, sir.”

 

“ _I_ could come up with a better joke. Er... ‘Assassins wary of accepting either’. Eh? Eh?”

 

Wilikins looked blank. But politely so. Vimes sighed.

 

“It refers to the fact that the Assassins aren’t accepting contracts on either me or Vetinari.”

 

“Of course, sir,” said Wilikins. Vimes sighed again.

 

“Anything else?”

 

“It mentions that the Seamstresses are expected to support you, sir, but haven’t actually done so yet. It also observes that the Watchmen’s Guild also hasn’t officially endorsed you, which some see as a division in your political campaign.”

 

“What! I don’t even _have_ a political campaign!”

 

“Yes sir. On that subject, sir, the Beggars Guild is going to spend the day begging for contributions to your campaign.”

 

“But—There’s no bloody campaign! Where is that money going to?”

 

Wilikins gave Vimes one of his special butler looks. “I’m sure I don’t know,” he said, and folded the newspaper up again, putting it away in a special butler pocket.

 

When he got to Pseudopolis Yard, everyone seemed suspiciously eager to get out of his line of sight. No one more so, it seemed, than Sergeant Colon, who was manning the desk. This was causing difficulty, because his large bulk had somehow gotten caught under the desk and was now setting it wobbling as he struggled to get free.

 

“Morning, Fred,” Vimes said casually. He picked up a newspaper. Colon froze, watching Vimes’ face carefully...

 

“FRED! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS THIS?”

 

Rapidly oncoming demotion has a smell. Vimes reeked of it.

 

Sergeant Colon weighed his options. He could tell the truth, which was that the commander was pointing at an advertisement for Uberwaldean sausages. He could mentally shift his finger two inches to the left and hope to find a quiet place to wait out the ensuing storm. Or—

 

“It was Nobby’s idea,” Colon babbled. “I was against it from the beginning, Mister Vimes. I told him you wouldn’t like it, I told him it was a bad idea but he would he listen? No, he would not! It was absolutely not my fault, Mister Vimes. Not at all, really. Mister Vimes? You believe me, don’t you?”

 

Vimes looked down at Colon’s fat, anxious face. “Fred,” he said, as gently as he could, which was not very gently at all, “Why am I learning about this from a newspaper?”

 

Colon’s face went slack.

 

“I mean,” Vimes continued, “that it seems odd that you didn’t come tell me when you were first approached by Nobby. It implies, in fact, a certain level of _complicity_. You aren’t complicit, are you, Fred?”

 

Colon wasn’t entirely sure he knew what ‘complicit’ meant, but luckily Colon’s mouth had always worked independently of his brain.

 

“Oh no, Mister Vimes, I’d never be _complicit_. Right terrible thing for a copper to be, complicit.”

 

“Indeed. Send Nobby up to my office.”

 

“Right, sir,” said Colon, visibly sagging with relief as Vimes walked off in a cloud of cigar smoke and tightly controlled anger.

 

They eventually found Nobby in the pigeon coop, being pecked by a flurry of angry pigeons. A golem constable carried him into Vimes’ office by the neck.

 

“Nobby Has Come To See You, Sir,” rumbled the golem.

 

An interesting choice of words, Vimes thought, as it implied some free will on Nobby’s part.

 

“Thank you, Dorfl,” he said. “Set him down, will you?”

 

“Yes Sir.”

 

Nobby, still covered with feathers, was unceremoniously dumped in a chair across from Vimes’ desk. Vimes waited until Dorfl was out the door.

 

“So,” he began. “There was an interesting article in the _Times_ this morning.”

 

“Er, about that, Mister Vimes—”

 

“And I say interesting, but I don’t mean interesting like a fluffy bunny is interesting. I mean interesting like a public beheading is interesting.”

 

Nobby had gone pale at the words ‘public beheading’.

 

“Please don’t go postal.”

 

"You started my political campaign, Nobby! Behind my back! And I’m not supposed to go _postal_? I’ll show you postal! I don’t want to be Patrician, Nobby. I specifically told you this! Was that hard to understand?”

 

“I s’pose not.”

 

“Then why did you start a bloody campaign?”

 

“Well, I was for it before I was against it, see.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“Erm, I don’t s’pose you’ve read the newspaper all the way through?”

 

“ _No_.”

 

“Well, one thing led to another and er, basically, if you take my meaning, there’s going to be a thing today.”

 

“A thing.”

 

“You’re not going to go postal, are you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“A rally.”

 

“A _rally_?”

 

“To show support for your campaign, Mister Vimes.”

 

“How many people.”

 

Nobby quailed.

 

“That’s a kind of tricky question, Mister Vimes...”

 

* * *

  

 “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, _A COUPLE THOUSAND_?”

 

* * *

  

The next morning, something new had appeared in Ankh-Morpork.

 

Won’t de Worde be pleased, Vimes thought, perusing the first and latest copy of _Muck Report_. The headlines were obscenely large:

 

**_ VIMES TEMPER POTENTIAL LIABILITY? _ **

**_INSIDE CAMPAIGN SOURCES SAY VIMES ‘TOO ANGRY TO BE PATRICIAN’_ **

**_MUCK REPORT_ **

 

The _Times_ had even better news:

 

**VIMES RALLY BROKEN UP BY WATCHMEN**

**Supporters “Shocked and betrayed”**

**_Vimes campaign off-message?_ **

**WOMAN GIVES BIRTH TO RABBIT**

 

“If I’d known all I had to do was to get angry, I would have done it a lot earlier,” Vimes remarked to Angua, who began coughing rather badly.

 

* * *

  

This was ridiculous.

 

**SUPPORT FOR VIMES GROWS**

**“He’ll bring real change to Ankh-Morpork”**

**With one day to go, race evenly split**

**_Talking to the man behind the campaign: Nobby Nobbs_ **

“ _NOBBY!!!_ ”

 

* * *

  

There was some sort of unwritten rulebook that said that these things must be done in dank, shady rooms in the darkest hour of the night. And Assassins lived by rules.

 

If Vetinari could only see me now, Vimes thought, although he was certain that Vetinari could. Political game, my foot.

 

“Well, Vimes,” said Lord Downey. “This is a very peculiar meeting, you know.”

 

Vimes lit a cigar. It made a flare of light in the grey dimness. “I know.”

 

“I can’t help but think you want something urgent from me.”

 

“I might.” He puffed cigar smoke into Downey’s face. Downey tugged at his bonds.

 

“The reason I think so, you see, is that you’ve tied me rather securely to a chair.”

 

“I have at that,” Vimes agreed. “I’m very good at knots.”

 

“I confess I do not enjoy them quite so much. But I digress. Is there something in particular you wanted to discuss, Vimes?”

 

“I think you can guess.”

 

“Ah. The Patricianship.”

 

“Yes.” Vimes took a long draw on his cigar. “You’re going to support Vetinari.”

 

Downey quirked an eyebrow. “Is that knowledge obtained?”

 

“No. It’s me telling you.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You heard me. The Assassins are going to support Vetinari, which ought to give him enough votes to keep both him and me in our respective offices.”

 

Vimes watched Downey struggle with himself. The Assassin was in an interesting conundrum. After all, there were rules to these sorts of things.

 

“And what do we get,” said Downey at last, without spirit. This was _not_ the way these things were supposed to go.

 

“Nothing,” said Vimes jovially. “But if you don’t, you get me as Patrician, which will not be fun for either of us.”

 

Downey looked lost. “I say, this is rather unsporting,” he complained. “There are rules, you know. You’re supposed to _want_ the power.”

 

Vimes grinned.

 

* * *

  

Angua handed him the evening copy of the _Times_ the next night. All the votes had been counted.

 

“Congratulations, sir,” she said.

 

**VETINARI WINS**

**Surprise victory**

**Assassins Guild swung election**

**No comment from Vimes campaign**

 

“Looks like my future in politics is over, Sergeant,” he said. “Isn’t that a shame.”

 

“I wouldn’t celebrate yet, sir. Vetinari wants you in his office.”

 

“What for?”

 

Angua looked bland. “Maybe he wants a recount, sir.”

 

* * *

  

Vetinari was drinking out of a wineglass as he entered the Oblong Office.

 

“Vimes,” said Vetinari, raising his glass. “I believe you are to be congratulated on a well-fought campaign.”

 

He supposed this was almost true. “Thank you, sir.”

 

“And now we can return to everyday life in Ankh-Morpork.”

 

“Yes sir. The citizens will certainly rest easy knowing that chaos and lawlessness is taking its usual form.”

 

Vetinari looked at him sidelong but did not comment.

 

“It was peculiar how the Assassin’s Guild voted so unanimously in my favor, wasn’t it? Quite an interesting turn of events.”

 

“Well, who understands politics, sir?”

 

“Who indeed?”

 

You do, thought Vimes.

 

“You are a remarkable man, Vimes. Many would kill for the office I occupy. Many have. You do not seem to want it when it is thrust upon you.”

 

“I’m a copper, sir. I’ve got a job to do. Power is for other people.”

 

“Very good, Vimes. Very good.”

 

“But you already knew that, didn’t you? Sir.”

 

Vetinari studied his wine and did not answer.

 

“Why this charade?” Vimes asked.

 

The Patrician looked at the window at the city; sounds of a riot on Cable Street and the smell of food from every imaginable place, and the lights of a city that never slept, ever. Vimes couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a trace of what might have been a smile.

 

“Because Ankh-Morpork will live forever,” he said. “And I will not.”

 

* * *

  

Drumknott snuck into the room on velvet feet.

 

“Ah, Drumknott,” said the Patrician. “I fear I am just very slightly woozy.”

 

“Yes, my lord. May I help you to your chambers, my lord?”

 

“It may be necessary, yes.”

 

They walked slowly through hallways that did not, strictly speaking, exist; a diminutive clerk and a lean black-clad figure that was walking ever so slightly sideways.

 

“I sense, Drumknott, that there is a question on your tongue,” said Vetinari, as his clerk steered him away from the wall.

 

“My lord, I just can’t imagine why you’ve put your office in such danger.”

 

“It was never in danger. You underestimate Sir Vimes’ skill of persuasion.”

 

“But still, my lord!— ”

 

“What do you know of Ephebe, Drumknott?”

 

The clerk shrugged. “A center for philosophy, I believe. They practice an odd form of government.”

 

“Yes. It is called democracy. Wherein the people rule. Theoretically, at the least.”

 

“Rule of the people, sir? That sounds dangerously unstable.”

 

“That is because the people cannot be reliably counted on to act in their own best interest. A _person_ will always act such. But a mob of persons has an intelligence of its own, unequal to the sum of its parts, greater and yet inferior. That is democracy, Drumknott, in which disparate persons come together as a whole, and select one among them to act in their best interests. It does not always work. But when it does, it is magnificent.”

 

Drumknott licked his lips nervously. “Surely, my lord, you cannot be thinking of changing Ankh-Morpork to such a system!”

 

“And why not?”

 

“Because it will not work, my lord!”

 

“The men who came before me were mad, Drumknott. Either mad already or driven mad with power. Who is to say our current system has worked better?”

 

“You are not mad, sir.”

 

“Indeed not. But I look towards the future.”

 

* * *

  

Vimes walked home alone, letting his feet guide his way. Riots were breaking out in the city, some participants men who were disappointed by this day’s outcome, but mostly men who were bored and in Ankh-Morpork, which had always been a good reason to riot.

 

He thought of the power he almost had and wondered what Vetinari was doing at the moment. All the usual things tyrants do, he expected, except he realized he wasn’t sure what tyrants usually did, and Vetinari wasn’t usual anyways, as tyrants went.

 

Vetinari had told him once that the word ‘tyrant’ came from Ephebe. It was what they had called their ruler. At least the Ephebians were honest about it, thought Vimes, amused, and then thought no more of it, instead going home to his wife and his child, for the moment a copper, and a copper only.

**Author's Note:**

> Hoping to come up with a sequel soon..."Clusterf*ck to the Oblong Office" is the working title.


End file.
